I think one of the most beautiful things in the world is a long table.
It seems so simple…so small…”a long table”…but don’t let that fool you.
It is ancient, it is healing…it is rare in these modern days of isolation…and because of that… it is vital. It also takes time. Like all good things…it takes time.
To seat 30 people on a dressed table, using real china, and metal cutlery and home cooked food is a heroic and communal task, one that cannot be accomplished in isolation but requires the works and days of many hands. A true labor of love that takes time to prepare for and time to recover from.
And indeed there will be time…as I prepare to wash my forth load of dishes. I imagine T.S. Eliot asking me an overwhelming question like “Was it worth it after all? After the cups, after the tabouli after the curry that trails along the floor and this and so much more?”
And me, as if throwing off a shawl and turning toward the window…I should say “Yes”. With my whole heart I would say, “Yes”
I tried to treasure the final minutes of my 36th year as best I could. I went to sleep on Saturday night, contemplating my life thus far and wondering what this next year would hold. Do I dare? and…Do I Dare? I grow old…I grow old…
I awoke with a kiss on my forehead and a stained glass window on my front door. A phone call from Mom and Rachel. My neighbors came by to help me clean and fix the furniture, Sean squeezed lemons, crushed garlic and mixed about 10 pounds of hummus and a vat of toum that could raise the dead. Talia, ground the spices and cooked two delectable Pakistani’s curries (one chicken and one lamb) And I chopped 24 parsleys for the largest bowl of Tabouli I have ever made, and thought of my father. (Tabouli…is a poem of love.)
But amoung all the chopping and cleaning and stirring there was laughter, there were stories, there were gazes across the room, there were hugs and smiles and cookie crumbs. It was glorious.
Soon the hours turned to minutes as the final rush to prepare the table began. Faces I love started strolling in, dressed in coats and ties, wedding dresses, top hats, wigs and black eyes. Beautiful friends. The fire was stoked the candles were lit the bowls were sent out and we feasted together.
There is something about the meal…that makes the after party so much better. Drunk off spices and leaves, fruits and curried meats, wine and poetry being yelled across the table….that takes time. Time to prepare…but time to eat. We took time to sit and share. Hands crossing, sending, lifting and dropping, clapping and writing. Here are two poems we collectively wrote around the table.
Exquisite Corpse Poem #1
Down cobblestones through cinder and soot,
The weight of the dark weakens my heart
The sight of your eyes quivers my thighs
The height of your hair gets me down there
Your claw caught my eye
Instead, the best thing was to have cranberry pie,
The fruit of her loins was cranberry pie,
And she filled the cup with the juice of her thys
Her neck a flock of sheep, her nose a crooked carrot
Cold and round it begs our gaze
Why lean so far for a sight?
You may fall from a cliff
Was it worth the view?
I wondered, tumbling down, down, down, down the edge of the abyss
If I would live a full life ever again
I’d wake up a happy man, life my dear friend to great each day
The curtains breathe as the wind says hello
And a knock on the door guides me to say
Which way? And in which movement do we play?
Whether in earth with worms or in sky with fowl
No direction!
Aimless in these feet in these hands in these eyes
Looking up on the vastness of it all and contemplating
Square salty crusty auspiciousness of the sounds being emitted…
Nevertheless, I shall trudge no more, but instead lay here in the leaves and grass and slowly return to the foamy soil of the earth
Worms worms i am soil that turned into dirt.
Exquisite Corpse Poetry #2
On the night which sits so deeply
I sit oh so deeply
To uncover a lie brought to this very table
Rife with scandal and dubious declaration
The men at the party took off their clothes
Silvery moonlight shimmered on their cheekbones
Reminding me of the days when life was younger and more pure
Purity though, I reazlie was overrated, all I want is chaos
Chaos through the stratosphere exploding into universes
Energy is all energy!!!
VIBING
I remember dancing silently…
Smelling the sweet aromas in the air
Harvesting wild strawberries to share
Hands soaked in red juice, stained with the wildness and acrid juice
Maroon handprints on your naked flesh
Which take time to dry
But we should not rush through life
Jump with joy, and catch that rainbow and ride it to the end
So when you reach the end. You know it’s the end.
And finally let me share this exquisite poem that Jesus Gonzalez composed on the spot standing around the table looking at the early materials that made up our evening…I will never forget after he read this poem out loud on the table my neighbor Saki looked at me and said sincerely “Everything he said was true…everything. It’s true”
Here is Jesus’s poem. Read it and know that’s it’s true.
